


Love the Fool: An Academic Snafu

by blizzard



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A Plot/B Plot, Affairs, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Professors AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone's got boatloads of them, F/F, M/M, Secret Relationship, Team Up, Unhealthy Relationships, personal issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blizzard/pseuds/blizzard
Summary: Gotham’s most eligible bachelor is Bruce Wayne: an aspiring concept artist born into old money. Despite his status, Bruce has some trouble breaking into the industry and starts working at the highly regarded Gotham Institute of the Arts to give his resume a bit more of an edge. It seems like a smooth plan until Bruce finds out that his old college “ex-not-ex” Jack Napier is also teaching at the Gotham Institute and seems to go out of his way just to get under his skin.Meanwhile, ex-therapist now GIA art professor, Harleen Quinzel, is hopelessly in love with her best friend, Pam Isley, which she wouldn’t usually find much of a problem except for the fact that Pam’s currently in a shitty relationship with some asshole not worth her time. Harley does a good job of keeping quiet about it, but every time she hears another one of Pam’s stories about her shitty boyfriend’s shenanigans, she feels her confession press on the tip of her tongue.





	Love the Fool: An Academic Snafu

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all!
> 
> This is my first time writing a multichapter fic. I am a huge fan of AUs and an art student, and I was talking to another artist friend who also loves Batman about school, which led to brainstorming the concept of a Batman art professor AU. I decided to try writing it all out myself instead of just outlining it since I've been getting back into writing (and because I'm starved for AU content). The story is all planned out, and I'm taking the time to experiment with writing style, pacing, characterization, and all that jazz. There'll probably be a few bumps in the road and _a lot_ of art talk, but I hope you all will like what I've written. 
> 
> Also! I think it's important to give a warning: Pam is stuck in an abusive relationship with Jason Woodrue in this story. I don't have any plans to write any graphic abusive scenes, but I just feel that people should be informed about the contents of this story and choose whether or not they want to continue reading. I'll be sure to write out warnings at the beginning of future chapters if I feel the need to. I'm marking the work as M for themes in future chapters, but I may just edit it later.
> 
> Take care!
> 
> Additional disclaimer: Real foundations, organizations, and artists are mentioned in some chapters but are completely unaffiliated with this work.

Bruce tries to stay optimistic on his first day on the job at Gotham Institute of the Arts, he really does, but the morning falls apart in beautifully jagged pieces before he’s even able to blink the sleep out of his eyes. 

First, an overlooked speed bump sends his too-weak coffee flying into the air. He manages to fumble and catch the cup, but all of it’s contents are spilled onto his crotch and he all but roars as he skids to a red light. 

Second, he has to turn around and have Alfred check to see if he didn’t give himself any second degree burns. That, and to change so that it doesn’t look like he’s pissed himself on the way to school today. 

Third, Google Maps decides to working right around the street where Bruce had spilled coffee on himself in the first place because his nightmare of a morning wasn’t going wrong enough for him already. 

He should have grabbed Starbucks on the way to work instead.

Bruce’s black Bugatti looks a tad out of place amongst the other 2009 Saturns and Honda Civics in the faculty parking lot, and really, he should have checked to see if there were any other cars he could’ve used that didn’t scream, “Bruce the Billionaire Is In the Building.” He knows he has some older models around the garage, but Alfred had mentioned something about first impressions before he had his coffee, and Bruce had taken it in stride, not thinking too hard about it. He had gone with whichever car was physically closest to the door of the garage, anxious to give himself enough time to get to class to make a good first impression like Alfred mentioned. 

Now he’s relieved that he did —class is about to start in something like ten minutes (if his watch is right) and he’s doing his best to not let his uncharacteristically wide gait show as he climbs up the concrete steps. The soreness of the skin on his inner thighs makes it hard. He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to sit through a six hour class like this; he might just read the syllabus and let them out early for his sake.

Pain is the last thing on his mind when the sight before him at the top of the stairs enraptures him: what appears to be a conceptual Performing Arts student is lying face down on the floor wearing nothing but a leotard with this month's edition of Vogue magazine cut-outs hot-glued to the fabric, probably some sort of installation giving commentary about how consumerism and capitalism are only harmful to individuals and society as a whole. It makes Bruce second guess taking the job. He hates high concept fine art, especially when it involves garbage or Piero Manzoni.

A heavy hand pulls Bruce out of his near annoyance-triggered dissociation. “Morning Bruce! Good to see you, bud.” Harvey’s energetic tone doesn’t disturb the body on the floor.

“Uh, morning, Harvey,” Bruce greets him, blinking a few times so that his eyes focus. 

Harvey’s smile falters a fraction. “Tough morning? You look like you smelled something gross.” 

“Tougher than you’d imagine,” Bruce rolls his eyes and Harvey chuckles.

“Well, that sucks, but sometimes it’s like that, y’know?” Harvey carefully steps over the student on the floor and leads Bruce inside through the corridors. “I was actually hoping to catch you before you made it to class, in case you had any questions. It really shouldn’t be too difficult, especially since it’s the first day. I hope you have your lesson plan.”

“Yeah, I do,” Bruce pats his messenger bag housing his laptop and external drive. “I figured I’d start with some basic color theory.” Something he can go over in an hour, easy.

“Good! I really like the use of color in your work, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Harvey grins.

“Yeah, and thanks again for the opportunity, Harv. I really appreciate it.” Harvey’s warm attitude is starting to un-sour the morning for Bruce, though he doesn’t let his stoic disposition falter. 

“Of course, man! We’re friends, I know your work, and I know what you’re like, which is why I think you’d make a great fit in the department. Really, feel free to come to me if you have any questions or concerns and I’ll take care of it for you. Promise.” Harvey says as he stops in front of a room labeled 207B. Its door is off-white with dirt and scored by a streak of blue paint. “I think this is you.”

“Thanks…” Bruce says as he eyes the mark. His room is supposed to have computers, not easels. 

Harvey follows Bruce’s gaze. “Oh, don’t worry about that. This is the right room. It’s just art school, y’know? Paint everywhere. I’m sure you remember.”

Bruce nods and recalls his alma mater. “Gotham University’s art rooms were always a mess.”

“Yeah, maybe if we had the funds we’d periodically clean the place up a bit more. Anyway, I’ll see ya around, Bruce,” Harvey says, eager to get to his own class which is also soon to start. Before he leaves, he leans closer to Bruce to quietly add, “Also, I thought you’d wanna know: I think a bird shat on your shoulder.” 

—

The classroom is fucking freezing. The only reason Bruce is teaching without it is because no amount of scrubbing was enough to remove the stain from whatever demonspawn defeated on him. He tries not to rub his arms too excessively while his students work during their lab time, but damn, he’s this close to going to Harvey’s room and asking him if he has a spare jacket he can lend him. He can’t remember where Harvey teaches on Monday mornings; maybe one of his students might have a spare… No, God, that’s unprofessional. Professors might be casual, especially at GIA, but he can’t have his students not taking him seriously. 

Then it comes to him: the lost and found. He had passed a student lounge on his way to the bathroom to try and clean his jacket the first time. Maybe he could just… borrow a jacket from there, just for today. He’s already decided to let class out early on account of his sore legs, what’s an hour of using a stranger’s jacket? Better than his shit-soaked one.

Bruce slips out of his classroom and comes to find a bin with a piece of looseleaf paper that looks like it was just torn out of someone’s notebook. It’s handwritten _Lost & Found _label is good enough for him; he takes a moment to make sure no one’s watching before he crouches down and starts rummaging through the bin. His only option turns out to be a too-small purple hoodie that makes it hard to bend his arms. He’s literally scraping at the bottom of the barrel here; if he had another choice, he would’ve gone for something that wasn’t such an ugly color, but believe him, he’d _looked_. The only other two black jackets are literally children sizes (he had checked the tags, confused). Reluctantly, he resigns to what the universe offers him and pushes himself back up. He can put off his drawing demo until next class, he muses on his way back to his classroom. 

Bruce turns the corner to cut through the vending and coffee machine area and suddenly he’s colliding with someone. Scalding liquid spills all over him for the second time today, seeping into the only jacket he could find that _remotely_ fit him and down to his _fucking undershirt._ His anger boils and he looks up, wanting to fucking _strangle_ whoever—

No. 

No. 

No, no, no, no, no, no, _no, no, no, No, NO!_

“Oh my God I’m so sorry… wait, _Bruce?_ ” The esteemed conceptual Fine Arts professor, Jack Napier, says from behind his manicured hand that’s flown up from shock. “Is that… my jacket? I’ve been looking for that everywhere!”

In that moment, Bruce’s urge to walk straight out of that damn building and into the middle of the nearest freeway to get splattered on the road in a beautiful mess of guts and gore is so damn near deafening that his legs twitch with intention. 

What kind of sick joke is this? He even looks behind him, expecting a third cup of coffee to get somehow thrown on him today by the host of whatever reality pranking show he _must_ be caught on at this moment. The comedic timing is too perfect— the hellish morning, the bird shit, the coffee, and now his _ex—_ wait, he isn’t his ex, they never had a “legitimate” thing, fuck no, they just had— 

“Uh, hello? Earth to Bruce? Yeah, I’m talking to you.” Jack snaps his fingers in front of Bruce’s face, just a bit unsettled by the uncomfortably long silence and blank stare he’s been met with. “I never thought you’d be so starstruck to see me.”

“Who the hell is starstruck?” Bruce can’t stop himself from snapping back at him, suddenly acutely aware of how tight the sweater feels. He tears it off as quickly as possible. 

“I mean, you’re the one standing over there looking around with his mouth gaping open like a goldfish,” Jack says as he starts to make himself a replacement coffee. “I mean, I know I look good but…” He runs his fingers through his newly dyed green hair— a stupid color.

Bruce grits his teeth and has half a mind to fling the sweater at Jack. Instead, he holds it out with a tight fist. “Here’s your jacket,” he says curtly, doing his best to not make a scene on his first day. 

“Oh, gee, thanks honeybunch.” Sarcasm drips from Jack’s red lips as he takes the soaked hoodie between his index finger and thumb as if it’s soiled beyond salvation. “Really appreciate it.”

“It’s not like I’m the one who spilled coffee on myself.” This time, Bruce fails to add. 

“How was I supposed to know that you were just going to come barreling right into me from around the corner? Yeah, I really wanted to dump some coffee on you for kicks. Sure.”

“Bet you’d love that. I’m sure you did.” Bruce catches himself saying. Regret burns in his stomach as soon as the words leave his mouth. God. The last thing he wants to do is get into a fight with Jack right now.

Jack locks eyes with Bruce and narrows his gaze. Anger smolders on Jack’s powdered face for just a moment before his painted lips pull into an antagonizing smirk. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he very well _sings_ and pours creamer into his new cup. “Care to tell me where you found my jacket? You never answered.”

Something cold slithers in Bruce’s belly, giving him a nervous case of indigestion. Did he imagine that look from Jack? “...It was in the lost and found.” He says after a pause. His chest is starting to feel chilly now that the coffee is starting to cool.

“Huh! I thought I had checked there,” Jack says chipperly as if they were having a normal, friendly conversation. He finishes stirring the sugar in his coffee and makes sure to put a lid on it this time. Bruce finds himself feeling thankful. 

Not knowing what else to say, Bruce almost turns to leave until Jack adds, “Y’know, it looked kinda good on you.”

 _What?_ Bruce’s fingers curl as he searches Jack’s face for something, anything that would give him a clue as to what he’s playing at. What is he _doing?_ “Uh…”

“Well! I better get going before my coffee gets cold.” Jack doesn’t wait for Bruce to respond as he slings his wet jacket over his shoulder and squeezes Bruce’s forearm. “Good seein’ ya, Brucie. Can’t wait to _run_ into you again.” He winks before he saunters off in the opposite direction Bruce had come from. 

Bruce looks after Jack’s swaying hips as he walks away. Jack doesn’t look back at Bruce, and he isn’t sure if he wants him to or not. 

And for a second, Bruce doesn’t know which would be worse. 

Bruce lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and unbuttons his shirt. 

He’s definitely letting class out early. 

—

Professor Harleen Quinzel had told her TA that she was just going to pop into Professor Isley’s classroom to cut more posterboard for her class, which is partially true. Pam’s room has a paper cutter and hers doesn’t. Well, that’s also partially true. _Technically_ Harley’s room does have a papercutter, but it’s old and rusty and the blade is dull. Pam’s is almost the same, but it’s better because someone remembers to oil the hinges on that one. But it’s also better because it’s in Pam’s classroom. Harley jumps at nearly any opportunity to be around her —she admires and supports her friend, they’re close, and she is absolutely, positively, hopelessly in love with her. 

“Hi Red,” Harley waves cheekily and is delighted when Pam smiles back at her. 

“Here to audit my class?” Pam jokes with a hand on her hip. She is drop-dead gorgeous in that yellow summer dress, which Harley feels goes without saying. Her wild, unkempt hair can’t be held back with only a scrunchie, but it’s Pam’s weapon of choice out of laziness. 

Harley tries not to stare at the slope of Pam’s shoulders under her cardigan, she doesn’t want to be a creep. “Maybe another time! I'm just here to cut more posterboard for my class, I hope that's alright with you.”

“I dunno… You’re being pretty loud. Maybe I should report you to the head of Fine Art for disrupting my class.” Pam’s grin is the only indicator to let Harley know that she’s kidding. 

“Oh no, anything but that, Professor Isley!” Harley dramatically tosses the back of her hand over her forehead as if she were a 50’s damsel. 

Pam laughs along with her class. “Alright, you've convinced me to show some mercy. Cut as much paper as you want, Harls.”

“Oh thank you, thank you,” Harley keeps up her act as she starts to use the blade. “You're so kind and benevolent Ms. Isley, I'm sure all students envy any one of yours.”

“Don’t be so quick to sell yourself short, _Doctor_ Quinzel,” Pam shoots back with a toss of her head. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only professor here who holds a PhD.”

Harley shrugs. “What can I say? I was interested in looking into how art therapy benefits my patients first hand and, well, I fell in love.”

“Quite the romantic, aren’t you?” Pam smirks when Harley’s face blooms in a soft pink. 

“I meant with the art, of course!” Harley stammers as she slams down the blade. Her cuts of posterboard aren’t as even as they were when she started cutting, and Pam is partly concerned that Harley will cut her fingers off if she keeps joking with her. 

Pam laughs again. “Alright, I’ll quit teasing you and let you get back to your work, Harls.”

Harley smiles politely, torn between not wanting to disturb Pam’s class any further and wanting to continue their banter and bask in her attention. She figures she can always talk to her bestie more on their lunch break, and doesn’t waste any time finding Pam again after her class breaks for food. 

“Pizza Hut or Del Taco?” Harley chirps as she sits down on Pam’s desk but mindfully not on her papers. 

Pam’s distracted look immediately dissipates in front of her friend, but Harley catches the way Pam had been clicking her pen just before she sat down. “Mm… I think Pizza Hut today. I’m gonna treat myself.”

“Something good happen lately?” Harley’s heart thumps in her chest, nervous for the answer. 

“Not… exactly,” Pam sighs and Harley feels her shoulders relax. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Harley pries.

“Sure, in the car,” Pam says as she stands, purse in hand. Harley was prepared to drive at Pam’s request, but Pam’s already out the door with her own keys, so Harley skips after her. 

“Let me guess,” Harley kicks a stray pebble as she waits for Pam to unlock her car. “Woody’s being a jerk to you again.”

“Yeah, good ol’ Jason,” Pam says bitterly. Harley notices the way she closes her door a bit too roughly when she gets in, and makes it a point to close hers nicely on the passenger’s side.

“What’d he do this time?” Harley asks. She rolls down the window while Pam pulls out of the parking lot. Wait… is that a Bugatti? She’s about to bring it up to Pam but Pam’s already talking.

“We just had another fight this morning over something stupid, the usual,” Pam’s car autoplays her _Is This It_ album and she turns down the knob so _The Strokes_ play softly in the background and she can hear herself talk better. “I’m just—fucking sick of being the one to clean all the time! I feel like, like I’m the one who does all the work in the house. At the very least I thought he’d help me water all our plants since like half of them are his, but I’m always the one watering them, trimming them, sweeping dead leaves off the ground, all of that! And y’know, I didn’t mind it when I lived by myself, but he might as well just _give_ them to me since he barely ever even looks at them, let alone take care of them.”

“Every time you complain about your boyfriend to me just solidifies the fact that I think he’s a schmuck,” Harley sighs as she looks out the window to watch Gotham’s proud buildings _whoosh_ by. Pam’s out here wasting her time with some _schlemiel_ when Harley knows she could be treating her a whole lot better! She feels a bit like an ass for wanting them to break up so badly, but damn, hearing stories like this all the time don’t discourage her at all. “And you’ve tried talking to the guy about it?”

“Yeah, all the time! That’s what we fought about this morning. I was telling him that the least he can do is spritz the hydrangeas every once in a while and he comes at me saying that all I do is nag him all the time, and _whatever_ ,” Pam slams the driver door again after she parks and walks over to the passenger’s side to wait for Harley.

Harley doesn’t mention that she can’t remember what the hell hydrangeas are while Pam continues her rant in the Pizza Hut. Probably wouldn’t help the situation. Harley just lends an ear while they eat, letting Pam blow off however much steam she needs —a shit ton. 

“He’s just so _immature_ sometimes. It feels like all the time! Sometimes I don’t even know why we’re together,” Pam says through a mouthful.

_JUST FUCKING BREAK UP!_

Is what Harley _would_ say if she had absolutely no self control and absolutely nothing to lose. Unfortunately, she has both those things: a respectable amount of self control and Pam’s friendship. Still, she can’t help but pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration. “So why _are_ you together, even?”

“Well,” Pam sighs, starting to calm down while she cleans her hands with a napkin. “He was really nice when we first met, and we have similar interests in botany and conservation. We were friends before we got together, y’know.” Harley knows. “He’s fun to be around with, it’s just the fights that are the worst part of the relationship, which is normal. But, I guess we always make up afterwards so…”

Harley eyes Pam folding, unfolding, and refolding her napkin. Ever since she heard about Pam’s relationship with Jason “Woody” Woodrue, Harley had only felt red flags go up, and this one is just another to add to the collection. It makes her own fingers restless —the thought that this scummy guy isn’t really appreciating Pam as he should be. It makes her jaw clench. “Pam, you already know that I don’t like this guy. Are you trying to get my opinion on what to do or do you just wanna vent and justify why you’re staying with this skeez?”

Pam’s eyes are cold as she looks over at Harley. “I just wanted some support, but if you think I’m pointlessly blabbing on, then you should’ve made it clear earlier. I don’t wanna bore you if you don’t wanna hear it.”

It feels like an icicle’s pierces Harley’s lung, and she scrambles to pick up the pieces. “No, Pam, I support you. I just don’t understand what compels you to stay with someone that you’re constantly complaining about, you deserve better! You’re strong and kind and passionate and funny and pretty and smart…” Those descriptors don’t even begin to cover all the things she thinks that Pam is. What she _knows_ Pam is. 

Harley’s words gradually coax Pam to thaw, though she is still a bit wounded. She folds her arms over her chest protectively, as if the weight of them is one of the only things grounding her to this Pizza Hut booth right now. “He just… makes it hard to leave,” she admits quietly. 

That’s it. 

The final nail in the coffin. If Harley hated good ol’ _Woody_ before, she fucking loathes him now. She knows that Pam is not the type to be walked all over, so to see her act so… uncharacteristically acquiescent only makes her worry. She knows, if Pam were a plant, she wouldn’t be grass, she’d be something strong and unshakable, like a… redwood. Or an oak tree. Or a pine tree. Or something else big and un-fuck-with-able.

Pam looks up at Harley from under her lashes when she feels Harley reach over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Red, listen: I’m here for you. No matter what you decide to do or not do, I got your back, okay?”

Pam places her hand over Harley’s and gives it a grateful squeeze. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Harley fights off a blush and smothers the urge to take Pam’s hand in hers and just. Hold it. For as long as she wants, or she needs. “And if you ever feel like you need an excuse to get out of the house or anything, you can always call me. I’ll take you out wherever you wanna go.” She’s surprised when Pam gets up to lean over their table and bring Harley into a tight hug. Her rose perfume fills Harley’s nose; normally she doesn’t like strong scented perfumes but Pam’s is warm and comforting. She takes a deep breath and sighs into Pam’s curly hair, wanting the scent to envelop her like a tangle of vines. 

“Thank you, Harley…” Pam’s voice is tender and soft, more like gold than the usual steel. “I’ll definitely take you up on it.”

—

Bruce ends his class early like he promised himself and doesn’t run into Jack as he waddles out of the building. Thank the Lord. He doesn’t know if his heart can take another surprise encounter today.

“Bruce!” He cringes at the call of his name. It isn’t until he hears it again that he’s pretty sure he recognizes the person calling him and turns around. Selina catches his attention by waving a hand as she _clicks_ down the stairs after him. Bruce has no idea how the hell she can keep her balance on those six inch heels, but he’s relieved to see that it’s literally anyone else but Jack calling him. 

“Bruce Wayne, is that you? How are you? I didn’t know that you worked here now,” Selina greets him warmly, not even a bit out of breath. 

“In the flesh. I’m good. And I just started working today. Harvey got me in.” Bruce says and accepts the tight hug that he finds himself in with a small smile. Selina accompanies him to his car and he slows his stride partially out of tiredness and so that Selina doesn’t have to hustle so much to keep his pace, though she doesn’t seem fazed. She’s always been the sporty type. 

“Oh, so you’re a part of the Entertainment Design department. That explains why I didn’t know, it’s not like they would’ve told us Fine Artists.” She smirks in a way that makes Bruce feel nostalgic. “I guess that makes you my nemesis.”

“What? You mean ‘cause of what happened in college?” Bruce says, confused despite the fact that he can tell she’s messing with him. 

“Oh, no way man, I’m past that,” Selina waves a hand. Their relationship had lasted a little under a year, but that had been at least four years ago. And they had mutually broken up on good terms, so it was the last thing on her mind. “I thought you were too. I’m just playing.”

“Oh, I am, I am. I thought you were mad, maybe, I dunno.” Bruce shoves his hands in his pockets as he tries not to think of his most recent confrontation with Jack. “Then what’re you talking about, Selina?”

“I'm mostly just kidding around, but it makes sense that you don't know since you're new. The Entertainment Design department and the Fine Art department kind of… hate each other. Just a little bit.” Selina laughs at Bruce’s confounded expression.

“What? Why?”

“Some people in Entertainment Design like to say that the dean plays favorites and gives most of the funding to our department, but I don't really think it's true. If it is, we don’t even get that much. It’s just that GIA is a conceptual school, and the Fine Art track is more conceptual than Entertainment Design, I'm sure you're aware.”

Bruce thinks back to the student face down on the floor this morning and nods. That was undoubtedly a Fine Art student. 

“So really it mostly comes down to pettiness. In my opinion anyway. I still have some Entertainment Design friends, though,” She winks at Bruce. 

Bruce feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like a waste of time.”

“Never taught at an art college before, have you?”

“Nope. Never taught before period. Though I'm really glad for the opportunity.”

“Yeah, rivalries between majors are relatively common,” she shrugs. “I'm surprised you came to teach, especially since it's only been what, two years since we graduated? I thought you wanted to be a concept artist for feature films.”

“Two and a half, I think. And yeah, I do, but a lot of working in feature has to do with seniority and reputation on top of the portfolio, so I figured I could buff up my resume with a teaching job.”

“Good plan,” Selina nods and approaches the car that is most obviously the most expensive one in the lot to lean on it. Definitely Bruce. “A Bugatti, huh?”

Bruce runs a hand through his hair sheepishly. “I’ll bring a more modest car tomorrow.”

Selina quirks a brow. “The fact that you even have the option is still pretty impressive. Almost pretentious. I don't know why a guy as loaded as you is worried about getting a job in the first place.”

“Come on, Selina. You know I don't do it for the money. I just want to be in the industry. Help tell stories. Maybe get into some comics.”

“I know, I know. You could be worse for a rich guy. You still working on your senior thesis?”

“Batman?” Bruce chuckles dryly. “When I have the time. I've kind of fallen out of it lately since I've been busy with freelance for the past couple years. I want to keep working on it, though. I'm still not sure about the working title…”

“I dunno, I always liked how ‘Batman’ sounded. Short, sweet, to the point. Batman: the guy who dresses up as a bat. Also he fights crime.”

Bruce chuckles. “Okay, so it wasn't the most creative title.”

“That's okay, a lot of my paintings are one word titles.” Selina makes an effort to comfort him despite all her teasing jabs. 

“You're gonna have to show me some time. It's been a while since I've seen you or your work,” Bruce says and follows Selina’s suit as he leans on the roof of his car. “I’d invite you to lunch but I gotta go home and change.” He gestures to his stained shirt. 

“It’s fine, we can grab a bite later. Is that why you're leaving? How'd you manage that?”

“It's… a long story,” Bruce can’t stop himself from roll his eyes. “Do you remember Jack Napier? I didn't know he worked here.”

“Jack threw coffee on you? That’s… very unlike him. At least at work. You should see him at a bar, though.” Selina smirks. 

“I, we, it was an accident. We bumped into each other.” Bruce explains, trying not to think of the last time he and Jack had gone drinking together. 

“What a waste of coffee,” Selina tuts. “But yeah, a bunch of Gotham U grads ended up working at GIA. Jack, Pam, Harley, Eddie, Ozzy, me, and now you. And Harvey. I don't know how he became head of the Entertainment Design department after just three years. They must've liked his work or attitude or something. He hit it off with the dean, apparently.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, him and Gordon go golfing on weekends sometimes.”

“Golfing? I gotta get him to show me his swing sometime.”

“Ugh, you both sound like old men. At least Gordon isactually an old man.”

Bruce laughs. Between Selina and the sun warming his shoulders, the tension in his body finally starts to evaporate. Despite his nightmare of a first day, he’s glad to know he has at least two friends at work. The dampness of his jacket persuades him to wrap up the conversation. “We should really grab something together later. For now though I think I'm gonna go and clean myself up. Sorry to cut our convo short…”

“Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me,” Selina says with a wave and pushes herself off of his car. “You know I like Italian.”

—

Amazingly, the rest of the week breezes by for Bruce, and he isn’t sure if that’s because he’s finally starting to get used to his new work environment, or because he caved on the night of his first day and prayed to every deity in his mental library to just cut him a damn _break._ He isn’t religious by any means, but maybe that had been the thing to do the trick _._ Maybe he should try praying to Ra more often, he muses while making the climb up the concrete steps of the Gotham Institute. He quickly remembers that he needs to be there a bit earlier this morning because of the administrative meeting he’s supposed to attend, and urges himself to trot up the steps faster while trying not to spill his cup of Starbucks coffee. 

He checks his watch. _Shit,_ he’s late. He jumps over the student who has been lying face down on the floor in front of GIA’s doors every morning consistently for the past week and hurries to the elevator where he repeatedly jams the button to go up. He hasn’t worked here long enough to justify being late to an administrative meeting, and his first one no less. 

Bruce hears the _click-clicking_ of footsteps approaching him and doesn’t turn around, instead opting to try praying to Ra. 

_Please. Please don’t let it be him._

Jack leans on the wall next to the button, to the left of where Bruce is currently hunched over and wound up like a coil that needs to spring. The sight makes him giggle. “Good morning, Brucie.”

So much for Ra.

Bruce looks at the red mouth that dared address him out of the corner of his eye and tries to stand a bit taller under Jack’s oppressive gaze in defiance. He definitely _does not_ think Jack’s loose tank top is flattering because of the way that it drapes on him. “…Morning,” Bruce musters, trying to keep a casual tone and ends up sounding a bit more constipated than what he was going for. 

“Late to the meeting too? Isn’t this your first one?” Jack asks lazily. He doesn’t seem too worried about being late to the meeting himself.

It takes Bruce a moment before he responds, not wanting to be so obviously baited. It’s been a while so he nearly forgot what many of his conversations with Jack were like, but he refuses to let him rile him up for little more than his own amusement. “I forgot,” Bruce decides to answer truthfully and keep an air of neutrality. 

“And here I thought you were the one who was supposed to be really meticulous about timing and details,” Jack’s green eyes catch his, as if he knows Bruce is making a conscious effort to not get upset. 

“That hasn’t really changed,” Bruce allows. 

Jack’s lips curl into a smirk. “Ever so detail oriented; I guess that’s why you make such a good concept artist, hun.”

Bruce blinks. He hadn’t been expecting this conversation to lead to Jack complimenting him. Though, he can’t shake the feeling that it was a jab at him. “Thanks,” he manages as the elevator doors finally open, mercifully giving them a distraction. The two of them pile in together, each taking their own half of the shared five foot space for the ride. Bruce leans on the wall, away from Jack, and hopes that he’ll just take the hint that he’s not feeling especially conversational. He’s frankly surprised that Jack is talking to him at all.

Jack pipes up again. Ignoring each other in close quarters would have been too easy. “Are you late because you stopped to get Starbucks?”

“Maybe,” Bruce replies, tired of Jack’s fake-nice attitude. He doesn’t see the point in engaging in meaningless conversation when it’s just the two of them by themselves. In front of others, sure. He doesn’t want anyone to think he has a personal problem with one of his already established coworkers when he’s only just been hired. He has to remember that he’s probably under scrutiny as The New Guy, and Jack looks like he’s already successfully jumped through those hoops and is comfortably lounging on the other side. 

“Aw, you didn’t get any for the rest of us?” Jack asks as if he’s genuinely wounded Bruce wouldn’t have thought to get him a drink, out of all people.

Bruce quirks a brow and takes a deliberate sip of his drink. “Why would I do that?” 

“Well, I mean, you’re the billionaire here. Not all of us have the luxury of being able to afford Starbucks every morning.” There’s sharpness to Jack’s tone. 

“It’s not my fault that you decided to live the starving artist lifestyle.” Bruce’s resolve to not fight with Jack starts to slip; he just can’t help himself. 

“Well you know all of us can’t just be _born_ with a silver spoon in our mouths. Some of us grew up on the same streets that the headquarters for Wayne Enterprises looks down on, but I don’t think that’s news to you.” Jack crosses his arms as he makes his point. 

Bruce feels shame burning on his face. He knows that getting upset at Jack for pointing out that he’s rich only makes _him_ the ass in this situation. He remembers Jack telling him snippets from his life growing up on the streets and feels his throat constrict with an apology. “Jack, look,” he tries to say, but Jack cuts in before he can get a word in.

“No, no, you’re right Bruce, charity cases aren’t nearly as attractive as tax breaks. Bringing coffee to work won’t give you that, so there’s no point, I see your angle. Maybe I should’ve made a living drawing cute little cookie-cutter Disney line ups like you to make some extra cash.” 

Bruce tries and fails to not seethe and stiffens his jaw. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He demands.

“Oh, you _know_ what it means, darling. So much of concept art looks the same, especially for feature: Like impressionistic caricatures of people that are so obviously based off of shapes. That, or it all looks like a rip off of _Adam and Dog_.”

“There’s a _method_ we use in the animation industry. Certain shapes evoke certain emotional responses from audience members—”

“Yeah, yeah, square means stable, round is friendly, triangle is menacing, boooring! How cookie cutter can you get, I mean really? Must be hard to be a cog in the machine that only wants the same stupid formula from you over and over again. I just don’t see the appeal of it.”

“I guess the appeal is the fact that I can afford to get Starbucks every morning if I really wanted to instead of wondering if I’m going to have to start eating my paints and brushes instead. What’s the appeal in painting a bowl of fruit that Matisse probably painted better?”

“Oh, _please,_ we both know you being able to afford Starbucks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner has nothing to do with you working in concept and more to do with the fact that mommy and daddy left you an empire to run in their legacy. And what’s the appeal? The appeal is that not everyone wants one of Matisse’s paintings. And surely you’re not so crude as to assume that all us fine artists do is sit around and paint fruit all day.”

Bruce leaps over Jack’s comment about his parents. The last thing he wants to do is make their fight physical and be fired and then blacklisted. “It’s either painting all the coffee cups in your room or flinging paint on your canvas and smearing it around into nothing discernible and arguing that it’s supposed to have some sort of deeper meaning when all you’re doing is treating your canvas like a throwaway pallet.”

Jack looks flabbergasted at Bruce’s description and puts a hand on his chest, deeply offended. “You really don’t know anything about fine art, do you? You just can’t get your head out of your ass and acknowledge how meaningful and profound some pieces can be. You know James Pollock—”

“Oh, do _not_ start on one of your hour long Pollock sermons right now, Jack.” Bruce punctuates his remark with another sip of his coffee and the elevator doors slide open, allowing him to escape into the hallway down whichever direction he hopes the administration meeting is in.

“Whatever, at least we’re able to have the freedom of exploring style. You won’t catch me drawing the next doe-eyed Disney princess,” Jack growls as he follows Bruce off the elevator. “And you know the meeting is this way, right? Again, thought you’d know, being so meticulous and anal.”

“Just show me,” Bruce says, his face feeling warm. Why does Jack go out of his way to make him feel like an idiot in the most inconvenient times possible?

“I _am_ , just follow me,” Jack’s voice echoes down the hallway, not caring if Bruce winds up getting lost or not. Bruce refuses to run after him and keeps his distance while they fall into a silently tense pace. Jack reaches the door first and disappears inside without waiting for him. When Bruce steps inside after him, he sees that all of the faculty are sitting and accounted for, making him the very last person to join. He hopes the dean won’t be upset with him if he just quietly finds a seat, but the last one seems to be next to Jack near the back of the room. He swallows down the urge to scream and quietly excuses himself as he maneuvers around people who are already sitting and gets to the empty chair. Harvey catches his eyes as he gives him a questioning look and all Bruce does is offer a small, half-smile and an apologetic shrug. It isn’t until he turns his attention to the front of the room that he realizes that dean Gordon has been waiting for him to sit before he continues talking, and Bruce feels a jolt of anxiety run down his fingers. 

“Morning Bruce, glad you and Jack could make it,” Gordon acknowledges him and keeps his tone neutral, so Bruce isn’t sure if he’s gotten on his bad side or not. It only adds to his uneasy feeling. 

Bruce hears a, “Morning, Jim,” to his right from Jack before he attempts his own. “Morning Mr. Gordon, sorry about the interruption. There was traffic,” He says, ignoring the snort from Jack. 

“Please, Jim is fine. I just wanted to make sure you heard this part: I was just telling the rest of the staff that our financial advisor wasn’t able to secure more funds in her meeting with a representative from the National Endowment for the Arts, which means that we aren’t going to be able to get that laser printer for the Graphic Design and Illustration departments to share. 

A woman in a pencil suit with a small name tag that reads Olivia Trout stands up, visibly flustered and Gordon raises a brow. “Again, Mr. Gordon, I apologize for that. I promise the next meeting I have with Luthor’s grant advisor will be much more successful.”

Gordon politely allows her to explain herself in front of the rest of the staff, although he’s heard her excuses about a million times and waits for her to sit back down. “Right, Olivia, I should hope so. In either case, I’d like to remind the staff that we’re looking at a shorter budget than last year, so please try and be conscious about the amount of materials you’re using and how much printing you’re doing.”

Bruce resists the urge to snort and looks at Jack out of the corner of his eye. Jack also looks annoyed with the dismal financial situation but blinks when Gordon starts to speak up again. 

“Although we weren’t able to get the laser printer this upcoming month, we _were_ able to get some new easels for the Fine Art department, which I know where in desperate need of replacement.” Gordon adjusts his open jacket, looking proud of himself. A polite applause trickles through the air at the accomplishment. 

Bruce notices that Harvey claps once or twice unenthusiastically before he raises his hand. “Jim, I thought you were going to update the programs in the computer lab before you got those easels. Unless I misunderstood our last meeting.”

The clapping peters out and Gordon raises a brow at Harvey. “Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, being on a tight budget means that we have to make sure our priorities are addressed. It’s a miracle none of those easels collapsed while the students were using them— you've seen them, I’m sure.”

“Yes, but I know I’ve brought up the outdated programs in the computer lab since last year. We can’t have students working on Photoshop 2014. In fact, I think the computers in the library only have programs from 2013. Meanwhile Autodesk released its 2018 version of Maya and we still don’t have that program either.” Harvey crosses his legs. Gordon holds his gaze for a tense beat before he replies.

“Well, the way I saw it was that the students usually have those programs on their laptops anyway, right? They usually work on them while they’re here, from what I can tell. The painters can’t drag around huge easels to and from school. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

“Yes, but I just don't think that the students should have to accommodate for their school when it advertises that they can use the programs they need on the _school’s_ computers. I’ve gotten complaints from students about it for semesters.”

“Well, if we had a bigger budget, we’d be able to address all the problems at once,” Gordon says, and Olivia seems to shrink in her seat. “But for now, we can only take things a step at a time. Getting those programs are the next step, Harvey.”

Harvey purses his lips for a moment, saying nothing. He then nods and concedes, allowing the meeting to end. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read! I felt that the sooner I posted this first chapter, the better. It's always hardest to start and it's hard to stay motivated. For now I'm just keeping it as a small personal project I'm writing for fun that I'll come back to when I feel it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! :)


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